Long Live the Emperor
by Polarissruler
Summary: WARNING FOR CHARACTER SUICIDE In a world, where the Metaverse never appeared and the Thieves never formed, corruption and vices run rampant. After Yusuke lied to himself for years, a room full of fake Seyuri breaks all illusions he had for his master. Yet the man, who has saved him, cannot be so evil, right? The cup of deadly tea seems like the only possible exit from the doubts.


Yusuke looked at the old, cracked cup. The white little ceramic, filled to the top with yellowish water and soft pink petals, gleamed under the pale light bulb. Yusuke gave the room one last glance. Sayuri looked at him from her picture, little tears forming her eyes. Were she alive, she would step out of the picture, hug Yusuke – just the way a mother would. She would show him love – true love, for first time in the poor painter's life – and Yusuke would push the cup off the table, breaking it and spilling all the tea. Yet the still picture hanged on the wall – there were no miracles.

Yusuke rose the cup to his lips and drank. Bitterness filled his lips – one last suffering in the world of pain. He had excepted the poison to be sweet and seductive, like a specter driving him to a world free of pain and sadness. Braving the horrible taste – it should be a crime for something so unpleasant to exist, Yosuke gulped down the crushed petals and sat down, fighting the urge to vomit. No, nothing could be too disgusting of a price!

Yusuke heard steps around the studio. It was Madarame – his master. If Yusuke ran to him now, if he told him everything, he would survive. Slow acting and easy to cure – Yusuke had chosen the flower because of those properties. His lips, dry from the bitter flower slowly spoke.

"No."

Coward? Yusuke had never trembled in fear, never hid anything. His art supplies – a part of his body – drew everything he wanted to show. Even Death's cold hands would be a warm embrace for Yusuke, waiting the fateful day for months. He was going to die! With already sealed fate, he had time only for one final painting – a suicide note without words.

The artist took a pencil and paper clearing his deck. A newspaper fell on the floor, the title: "Madarame's Talant: Plagiarism or Not?" Months ago, Yusuke would have laughed at the accusations, ready to wager his soul for the master that saved him, when Yusuke had no one else. The master that poured all his love into Yusuke and wanted nothing in exchange – nothing, but Yusuke's talents.

Yet reality had to oppose the lies, just like it did with all happy stories. So many copies of Sayuri lined the room that should have stayed closed. How could his master do something so low? Yusuke tried to forget the room, finding excuses for his master – Madarame loved art, he would never use it simply as means of profit! No, art was the nectar of the soul, the purest, most intimate thoughts one could share.

Day after day, the truths started jumping in front of Yusuke with their cruel, yellow smiles. Yusuke saw the way his master treated the other pupils, the way he took everything they had and left them to die. The seeds of doubt grew to be poisonous oleanders.

Yet part of Yusuke's heart still tried to give excuses to Madarame. It was as if the man was torn in two – the evil half, who stole everything from those, who had nothing and the good half; the caring old man, who still loved Yusuke with his whole heart. Which one existed for real and which one was a simple lie? Yusuke watched patiently the bitter reality, as student after student were drained by the monster – a monster that acted in most noble and proper manner.

Was Yusuke another stepping stone for his master? Was his fate to die, once his duty was over? All those Sayuri, each more fake and worthless than a de Hory painting, laughed at him in his dreams, mocking all ideals he had. The woman's smile – formerly sweet – was cruel twist on her face, the eyes stealing any sense in Yusuke's soul.

A part of Yusuke wanted to go to Madarame and ask him about the room, about the infamous rumors. Yet he knew, he knew way too well, that Madarame was going to throw him away, just alike a tool that was no longer needed. Yusuke could not bear that, yet he could not bear living as a pawn, ready to be disposed on a moment's notice. For the torn soul driving his confused mind death became an ideal. Yusuke wanted to ask the question one last time, with no consequences.

Yusuke took the pencil. He drew the figure of a man, wearing a mask on his face. A pretty, young man with a skull in his hand. A young man, forced to hide his face, while time mercilessly passed by him. A young man – unknown, even in the coffin. Fate, holding a scythe – a beautiful bouquet of oleanders. Fate, taking the soul and leaving empty husk. Fate and the man, walking to the paradise, with no injustice. An empty, masked corpse and the revealed soul, doomed by his own hand. Fake tears over frozen ground. Fake tears born from fake love.

It was far from masterpiece – just a hastily drawn suicide note. One leg was a bit shorter than the other, the flowers looked flat and the mask seemed to be a second skin to the corpse.

Pain burned Yusuke's chest, almost sending him on the ground. Painted skulls and empty canvas looked at him, ready to suck his fleeting soul. Holding the fear back, Yusuke tried to open his eyes and keep drawing, correcting the mistakes. It burned him – oh, how painful it was! – like fire, turning his eyes to ash, but he forced himself to look. Only few more details, drawn in haste through the yellow, burning miasma…

Yusuke fell to the ground once again, the pain in his chest winning. Deadly cold fingers touched his face, ready to take him. He coughed. No, there was so much he still needed to do! Standing up – such a pain, when his legs were heavier than the huge canvas that decked the studio, he looked around one last time. The beautiful Sayuri – the only painting he saw through the yellow - looked at Yusuke, eyes filled with sadness and sorrow.

Yusuke coughed up blood, feeling as if his body was torn apart from the inside. Standing up shakily, he tried to walk to his deck, few steps away – but with the poison destroying Yusuke's body, he felt like he had to walk across the whole world. The painful, weak steps stopped as Yusuke fell on the ground, choking on his own blood.

"Yusuke? Are you alright?" Madarame had heard the noise and came to check on his student. "Oh, no!" shouted he, as he saw his pitiful student on the ground. He rushed to check on Yusuke, pushing the cup by accident. The little tea left over fell on the picture, soaking the man in the coffin.

That was the moment! Yusuke tried to ask his question, to check what his master was: a devil or a saint. No voice came from his mouth, only bloody red coughs. He felt like he was going to vomit and tried to hold that feeling back. In between coughing fits, he heard his master's voice.

"Alright… Save… Doctor…" Through the burning yellow, Yusuke saw his master walking around panicked. In the end, he had cared. Yusuke closed his eyes, heart torn apart by poison and regret. How could he have done something so horrible? How could he kill himself and cause his master so much suffering? Darkness took over the world.

Madarame looked around the studio. The woman on the phone had told him to check for any pills that Yusuke could have taken. As he shuffled throw the papers on the desk, he found the suicide note: an eerie painting of Death taking someone's soul. On the back, in Yusuke's elegant script, the boy had written about the secret room with the portraits.

He knew! Madarame looked at the paper sheet with so intense hate that it could turn to ash on the spot. "I must burn this," he said, putting it in his pocket. While the criminal walked to his office, he tripped in Yusuke's arm. The student was unneeded anymore. No, it was better to let him die.

Sayuri looked at the closing door, eyes full of tears.


End file.
